


Sherlock's Stalker

by SherlockedTrekkie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Watson is referred to as 'John Hunter' for the majority of this story, yay pseudonyms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 22:44:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2287154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockedTrekkie/pseuds/SherlockedTrekkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is following Sherlock around, killing those with ill intentions toward the detective.</p><p>Scotland yard has no viable leads so Mycroft is called in and brings Sherlock in on the case as a his own consultant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 4

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: this fic was started in 2012, so it's unlikely it will be added to any time soon, but I figured I should put this up anyway... sorry

Sherlock sits in the dark flat, hands clasped below his chin as if in prayer, staring intently at the skull above the fireplace.

"Breathing is boring," he intones as he hears the stairs creak behind him, "Mrs. Hudson, would you fix me a cuppa?"

"Not your housekeeper, dear," his landlady replies, walking into the cluttered kitchen.

"Where did all of your cups go off to, Sherlock?" she asks impatiently, sifting through piles of who-knows-what on the counter.

"Never mind the teacup, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock drawls, "A coffee mug will do just fine."

"Fine, but next time I see you I’ll be expecting a cupboard full of clean dishes," Mrs Hudson says, wiping cobwebs and dead insects off the mug with her sleeve.

_*knock knock knock*_

Mrs. Hudson turns to face the detective, “Are you expecting company?”

"No," he answers, his eyebrows lifting in anticipation as Mrs. Hudson walks down the stairs to open the door. Before she reaches the final step on her way back up, Sherlock deduces the identity of the caller.

"Mycroft," he spits as the door opens, "What a delightful surprise…”

Sherlock’s brother stands still, saying nothing, as if waiting for the perfect moment to begin his speech, “Your three days are up, Sherlock, we welcome any insight you may have.”

The detective stiffens then relaxes and begins, “Your shooter is acclimatized to violence - a marksman with nerves of steel but a strong moral compass. He is roughly 1.7 m tall and walks with a limp. Remind you of anyone?”

Mycroft’s brow furrows in annoyance. “No one I can think of offhand, but I’m sure Scotland Yard will confer with you on this case.”

"Wonderful," Sherlock mutters to himself, "More Lestrade."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to write more of this, but I have no idea where to take it. If someone gives me a good idea I might be able to finish this.
> 
> I was hoping to end this with John/Sherlock being together, despite the whole crazy stalker!John thing. I'm just not sure how.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's stalker (nicknamed John Hunter by the police) kills a civilian and Mycroft seems to know things he shouldn't be able to.

An hour later, Lestrade hands Sherlock a file of all the information they have on his stalker. It consists of a rough police sketch from witness testimony of a blond man with a round face wearing a pale knit sweater and Sherlock’s descriptions from earlier in the day.

“We’re calling him ‘John Hunter’ for the time being,” Lestrade says, “It’s easier than having to refer to ‘that stalker bloke’ whenever we discuss him, and ‘John Doe’ sounded too boring for this guy.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the name, “Is this really all you’ve found out? He’s been tailing me for the past four days and you have virtually nothing.”

“That’s not fair!” Lestrade asserts, “We have a sketch of the suspect. You haven’t even seen this guy and he’s been following you for over 96 hours now.”

Sherlock tips his head in a mocking nod, “True. However no one seems to recognize this man. He could be anyone off the street. Without my deductions your sketch would be useless.”

Lestrade crosses his arms, “Yeah… Well… I -”

Anderson interrupts Lestrade, running into the precinct, panting heavily. The DI spins away from the detective and turns his attention to the out-of-breath man.

“What’s happened, Anderson? Where do I need to be?”

“At the bank!” he says, chest heaving, “He’s shot a civilian.” He hands Lestrade the camera he carried with him, and the DI quickly flicks through the relevant photographs.

“You’re sure this is our guy?”

“Positive. The wounds match up, they were shot from the same height, and we have a number of witnesses ready to testify that the man in the sketch.”

“Perfect. Sherlock, you’re with me. Anderson, I need signed testimony from the witnesses.” Lestrade passes the camera to the detective and digs his keys out of his pocket. “Here. Take a look at these on our way. They might be helpful.” Sherlock nods almost imperceptibly, already focused entirely on the device in his hands.

***

The cruiser pulls up to the bank and the detective and DI get out, red and blue lights blinking incessantly around them. They jog towards the building, pausing only to duck under the yellow police tape. surrounding the area.

“Donovan! What do we have?” Lestrade calls as soon as he makes his way through the front doors.

“We left everything the way it was when we got here,” Donovan tells him, “Going by what we’ve seen from primary inspections of the individual, the man was moments away from taking out a gun to rob the place when Hunter got to him.”

“Were there any other casualties?” Sherlock pipes up.

“None. Just one clear shot through this man’s heart,” Donovan says, shivering, “Hunter must be a trained marksman.”

“He’s military,” Sherlock affirms, kneeling down to examine the body, “Like I said, John has nerves of steel and a strong moral compass. He has obviously been trained well and used these skills for a long period of time.”

“The only question is why now?” Lestrade says, “Why these specific people? Why’s he tailing you?”

“Good samaritan?” Sherlock says, face contorting into a questioning frown. Lestrade glares at him.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose, “Bad samaritan?”

Lestrade rolls his eyes. “Can you get on with actual detective work now, please?”

“Of course,” Sherlock sighs, taking out his pocket magnifying glass and snapping it open. Lestrade and Donovan each take a step back as the detective bends over the body to inspect the bullet hole in the man’s jacket.

***

“Well?” Lestrade asks when Sherlock finally stands back up.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and begins his declamation, “The victim either has a serious girlfriend or a woman he has been living with for a number of years - it could be his mother. No, scratch that, it is his mother - he’s on the older side but doesn’t wear a ring. Besides no one else would leave that kind of note.”

“Note?” Donovan asks.

Sherlock nods, “He has a folded piece of note-paper in his pocket. It’s new; either written this morning or last night. The paper is still crisp and the ink from his pen has not begun to smudge due to general pocket friction. The writing is full of loops and swirls, a mixture of script and print. Typically only younger women write like this, but this woman’s writing is stylized. She has been writing this way for a lifetime. Ergo, this is an old woman. Furthermore what she has written is… disturbing at best. Something you would normally see pinned to a four-year-old child’s school uniform: _‘My dearest Johnny - I love you, sweetheart. Have a good day at work. I never stop thinking about you.’_ ”

“I can see why that note might be confused for a girlfriend’s,” Lestrade mutters.

Sherlock ignores the DI and continues with his speech, “Despite his obvious Oedipal complex, this man is fed up living in his mother’s unfinished basement - note the dust and mold on the cuffs of his jacket and ankle hems on his jeans. He wants to make a bold move; he wants excitement, but he is unsure if a bank robbery is _really_ how he wants to go about making such a statement.”

“So he wasn’t going to hold up this bank?” Donovan says, frowning.

“There is a small probability that that could have happened,” Sherlock explains, “But you must have noticed during your original analysis that the gun tucked into the back of his jeans is unloaded, but he has the matching clip in his front trouser pocket. He had all the materials necessary to carry out his plan, but none of the volition. This man did not want to hurt others; he wanted to feel powerful.” The detective steps back from the body looking pleased with himself, as if daring the DI to ask him another obvious question.

Lestrade takes a moment to think before answering Sherlock’s challenge, “But why’d the shooter kill him? I thought he’s only been killing people you associate with, not out around town making trouble in public buildings.”

Sherlock frowns, “I don’t know. I was going to go to this bank earlier today but Mycroft convinced me not to - something about keeping John away from ‘the general civilian population’.”

Lestrade nods, brows furrowed, “And yet Hunter was here anyway.”

“Obviously.”

“Maybe he only overheard the part of your conversation where you mentioned needing the bank,” Donovan suggests, “Then he skipped out before you were convinced not to go, in an effort to get here before you.”

“Yeah, that’s entirely possible!” Lestrade agrees, “That’s fairly normal behavior for a stalker.”

Donovan grins at the DI’s praise, “So that explains why he was at the bank…” She trails off in thought.

“But why you, Sherlock?” Lestrade asks.

“No idea.”

“What exactly did Mycroft tell you to keep you home today?”

“I told you - safety of civilians, potential for robberies, the usual.”

“He knew about this man’s plans?”

“All he said was he had heard talk that a robbery would happen here today. He didn’t say when or why or by whom.”

“But how could he possibly know?” Lestrade muses, gesturing to the body, “You said this guy didn’t even know whether or not he was going to do it!”

“I told you - he is the British government.”

“Your brother has too many connections.” Sherlock nods, pulling a phone out of his coat pocket and punching in a series of numbers.

“Hello, brother dear - … You know perfectly well what I’m calling about … The shooter was - ? … No … Fine … Lestrade, it’s for you” He hands the phone to the DI, who gingerly takes it out of the detectives hand. Sherlock waits until his device is gone and steeples his fingers below his chin in concentration, eyes sweeping around the room until he finds a security camera in the corner.

“I need to inspect your security footage!” he calls out to anyone listening.

“This way, sir,” an officer says, pointing to the ‘Employees Only’ sign behind the counters.

Sherlock races across the room, dark coat billowing behind him. “Get me the tapes taken this morning.”

“Yes, sir,” the woman answers, grabbing the walkie talkie from her shoulder as Sherlock carefully shuts the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written anything for this story in like 2 years, so I hope my Sherlock doesn't suck.
> 
> I'm not sure how much time I'm going to have to write since school is a thing, but I'll do what I can. I just happened to have a large chunk free time last night, which doesn't happen all that often.


End file.
